Afraid, I've stood here each day. Never getting too close. Through all the seasons: Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring. From this distance, even after all these years, the V-shaped black granite, with the names that go on and on, smaller and smaller, into a point of some misty eternity ... hurts

"But I am free," I argue.

"Then why are you still here?" they ask. I have no answer to give them.

. So, I stand here each day. Afraid. Never getting too close, because at The Wall, you must transverse to that year, be it: 1959 ... 1960 ... 1961 ...1962 ...1963 ...1964 ...1965 ...1966 ...1967 ... 1968 ... 1969 ... 1970 ... 1971 ... 1972 ... 1973 ... 1974 ... 1975.

And you must transverse through the names. It is not easy to find a name amid the hundreds ... the thousands ... the tens of thousands. The names are not in neat alphabetical order. No, they are in the order of their death. White in Black. Black in White. Nothing is easy about The Wall.

I watch from afar, their journey here: the sons ... the daughters ... the wives ... the mothers ... the fathers ... the sisters ... the brothers ... the uncles ... the aunts ... the cousins ... the friends. All search for that name. All search for a finality. All search for a new beginning. One common thread. All needing to be set free.

Today, as it snows, The Wall tugs at me, like a kite on a windy day, yearning to break from its tether. It is a new experience, this yearning, as I watch the few that are here.

A black man, in his seventies, is alone in front of the dead of 1973. On his knees, he stares at a name. With difficulty, he leans toward The Wall. A pencil in one gnarled hand, a slip of paper in another. His hands tremble, and the pencil drops to the snow. He bows his head.

A woman walks slowly along the walkway. As always, she starts at the east and makes her way past the years, making note of the new items placed at the base of The Wall this day: The flowers, a poem weighted with a stone, an American flag, a medal, a stuffed teddy bear ... all tokens of love lost and left behind.

I have seen this woman here many times, and have learned from others, that she had helped them as a nurse in Vietnam. She searches, finds, and touches the tips of her fingers to a name from 1964. She turns and walks away, toward the lone man. I watch as she stops, leans down and puts her arm around his shoulder. They speak. She gently takes the pencil and rubs a name on the paper. They weep together.

A young man slowly wanders along the walkway, searching. In the falling snow he looks surreal. As if he belongs neither here or there. Around thirty, he has a child of five with him. A sandy-haired boy, with bright blue eyes, bundled in brightly colored garb, clutches his father's hand. Too young, he does not know, what it all means: The Names. White in Black. Black in White. The Wall.

Father and son stop at the year 1968. My heart aches. The Wall tugs at me, like a kite on a windy day. Suddenly, the tether that binds me to this spot snaps. And for the first time, I step forward.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Robby?"

"Is he here?"

"Yes ... but ... I haven't found his name yet," the man says, his voice hoarse with emotion.

He continues to search, while I make my way to the boy and stand behind him. The father does not notice me, he's preoccupied. His eyes dart from name to name, as if afraid to linger too long. Afraid to find. Afraid not to. Name ... after name ... after name ... until finally, right there, close to the middle--

"Daddy, why are you crying?"

"It's been ... so long ... I don't know ... maybe it's because--"

Tears stream down both our cheeks. as we find what we are looking for. The man lifts his son in his arms, and hugs him close.

"Because why, Daddy?" the child asks asks again, as his father reaches in his pocket, takes out a cracked and faded photograph of a young pilot, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes.

Tired and cold, the child wraps his arms around his father's neck and looks my way. I smile. His solemn blue eyes gaze at me.

"Because ..." the father falters, "I ... was born the day he died ... and never got to say--"

The young man stops in mid-sentence and reaches for the name. In that instant, I realize I have found a finality, a new beginning and the common thread ... of all who are set free here. I watch him, this man, I never knew, reach forward and gently touch ... my name.

"Good bye, Dad."

My grandson glances my way and smiles.

"Bye bye, Grampa."

I turn. I leave. I am set free.

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